


i died and came back but you never forgot

by theworldabouttodawn



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, idk wtf i'm doing, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theworldabouttodawn/pseuds/theworldabouttodawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from jmwestdestiel on tumblr: "Reincarnation au; Bard ventures into a forest most believe to be haunted by a lonely spirit who wanders searching for their lover. He goes into the woods to prove the stories wrong but finds the elf king sitting at the grave of his lover from centuries ago." Unfortunately I'm a dumb and started writing after the first seven words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i died and came back but you never forgot

The boy is born and raised in Minas Tirith, son of Sarranien of Dol Amroth and Feldenmar of the Guard of the White Tower. He grows up like any other Gondorian child in those pleasant, prosperous times after the War of the Ring, happy and carefree and playing at war. But whenever he takes up a branch as a sword to defend his kingdom and chase his playmates around, he weighs it in his hand and finds it unnatural, no matter how much he trains with his father or playfights with his sisters. It just doesn’t feel _right_ , he thinks, but for lack of a better weapon, he just kind of deals with it.

Then comes the day when his Uncle Faramir (it’s complicated, okay, Faramir is married to Aunt Eowyn who is Uncle Eomer’s sister who is married to Aunt Lothiriel, Loth for short who is Mother’s sister) brings him a bow just like the ones his Rangers in Ithilien used in the bad old days. The moment the boy takes the bow and feels the smooth wood in his grip, it feels _just right_ in his hands, like the swords never did, and he knows in a flash that this is what he is meant for.

Sometimes he _sees_ things, a town floating on the water, barrels coursing and tumbling through river rapids, the darkness of a forest that is drawing in on itself. But the image that predominates all, at least for the first years of his life, is fire – dragonfire – the town burning – the dragon in front of him, filling all his senses, threatening to consume him from the depths of his imagination. After the fire, however, always comes the smooth skin, the golden-white hair, and the sweet scent of woodland flowers, and the boy really has absolutely no idea what any of it actually means.

As he grows and becomes a man, he finds himself drawn more and more to the elves. Not those of his lady Queen Arwen’s kin, but the ones that Prince Legolas rules in the forests near the Glittering Caves. The now-man can’t help but find the elf prince familiar, somehow, but he chooses to stay away from him because, for some reason eve he can’t really explain, he doesn’t wish to make himself known. The other Silvan elves look strangely at him the first few times he appears, but after he introduces himself and hangs around them for a while, the looks and murmurs disappear and he can almost feel like he’s one of them.

One day, Queen Arwen Undomiel summons him to her chambers and hands him a letter. “You are familiar with the Silvan Elves, are you not? Can you take this letter to Prince Legolas?” He accepts it despite his misgivings about seeing the prince and rides off, two days’ journey to the forest.

When he gets there, his friends come running up to him, asking why is he in such a hurry this time, but he waves them off with a promise to drink later and asks to be taken to the Prince, who has to be summoned first from Lord Gimli’s Glittering Caves. When Legolas does arrive, however, and sees the man, he steps back in shock. “Bard,” he whispers in disbelief.

The man has heard this name in the whispers and murmurs of the wood-elves, but if he’s sure of anything, it’s that “Bard” is most definitely not his name. But he chooses to disregard this for the present and instead bows and holds out the letter. “I bring a missive from the Queen Undomiel.”

Legolas takes the letter, slitting it open with a white knife. When he finishes reading the message, he turns back to the man and says, “This is news that should get to my father. If you don’t mind, could you take another letter up to Greenwood the Great?”

In all honesty, he really has nothing better to do, and the thought of travelling to Rhovanion stirs something deep within his veins, so he nods. “I’d be glad to, Prince Legolas.”

“Then wait here for a few minutes while I compose my own letter. Your horse is being fed and watered as we speak, and my elves are loading her up with plenty of provisions for the journey.”

The man leaves a few minutes later, heading north and never looking back.

* * *

He’s heard tales of Greenwood the Great, of course, tales of the Mirkwood and its giant spiders, the siege of Dol Guldur not thirty years past, and the new prosperity that has arisen from the connexion of Lothlorien and Eryn Lasgalen. When he arrives at the forest, it looks even more beautiful than he expected it to be (he doesn’t really know why he even has expectations, however, it’s not like he’s really put much thought into the Greenwood) but somewhere in his bones he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something _wrong_ , something _empty_ , like the lifeblood of the forest is fading or something. 

But he finds the path to the Elvenking’s citadel with almost suspicious ease and canters along it, revelling in the sun-dappled trees and rays of light slanting in. He’s probably being followed (actually he knows he is, he can _feel_ the eyes on his back) but he really doesn’t care as long as he’s not being threatened or attacked.

When he arrives at the gates of the great halls of Eryn Lasgalen (a sight that stirs something deep within him that he can’t quite place his finger on), one elf (who looks impossibly familiar, although he cannot for the life of him tell why) asks his purpose. He tells her, and she responds, “The King has not been seen for many days, but he’s known to go down to the stream, a few hours’ ride down that path behind you. I would advise you to stay here and wait, however, as he does not wish to be disturbed.”

And he feels drawn to the path the dark-haired elf points to, feels an urge to see the letter delivered safely into the King’s hands, wants to see the King himself despite what the stories say about his hardened heart, so he takes the proffered route and soon finds himself in somehow familiar ground. The forest doesn’t seem nearly as empty, now, and marginally livelier, but still there’s a sense of wrongness that the man cannot shake.

He comes across the Elvenking just like the guard predicted, sitting on a rock by the river, really, looking smaller than he expected (remembered? That’s the word that comes to mind and he really doesn’t know anymore) but still a vision – long blond hair cascading down broad, elegantly draped shoulders, circlet glimmering in the sun.

Feeling like an intruder, the man clears his throat. “I come bearing a letter from your son, my lord,” he says, intending to just see the letter safely delivered and be on his way. But then the Elvenking turns, and his smooth, creamy skin is paler than snow, and his blue eyes seemed to have dimmed (from what, the man asks himself when he makes this realisation.)

But as he takes in the features of the man standing in front of him, life returns to those (beautiful, deep, celestial) eyes slowly, and with an almost fearful voice the man never expected to hear from such a regal and self-assured being, the elf whispers, “Bard?”

And with the name falling from the Elvenking’s lips comes a torrent of memories that solidify the hazy images he’s seen since his childhood and turn them into experiences and emotions. He grabs the name and claims it as his own at the same time as the Elvenking’s name appears in his memory, along with sensations and passion he had wondered if he would ever experience. “Thranduil!”

Leaping forward, the Elvenking buries himself in the man’s arms, and as he holds the elf tight, the man realises that the skin, while as soft as he remembers, is also cold as ice. With more than a touch of horror, he murmurs, “Were you fading? Oh, Eru, Thranduil, I’m so, so sorry, tell me you weren’t fading, please…”

But as he looks into his beloved’s icy blue eyes, he can tell that the elf had been in mortal danger of disappearing forever, and he dreads to think what could have happened if he hadn’t appeared when he did. But he’s back, and Thranduil’s still here, and now that they’re together, anything that may have happened before, while they were apart, doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Barduil blog at thranduilsbowman.tumblr.com


End file.
